Addressed to Jane Doe by intricately-ordinary, literature
Literature
Addressed to Jane Doe
some nights I like to tear my veins out, individually
like flower tendrils waiting to bloom and
string them up in the sun I never got to see;
violet memories, severe and sharp around the edges
like the day her eyes clouded over. blooming
purple, precious thing, nurtured by her inability to say no;
I wonder what she’d say when she saw the spaceships
steal the sky. she’d raise her bloodless palms
to the empty heavens and ask them to take her, too
(these nightmares are a self-diagnosed
expiration date, I wake to the sound
of your wildflower heart mourning my
goodbye. I still wince like there’s
a war being fought between
I stopped using his full title
because it started sounding too formal,
and it’s hard to be standoffish with someone
who swaps albums and memories so generously,
who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,
who knows me by my boneless,
drowsy form on the couch and by my words.
And maybe one day he’ll ask
me to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,
but I won’t.
Because it sounds too much like dad,
and I’m afraid of slipping up.
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